


I Spent All My Years in Believing You

by gishmi1ish



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Catharsis, Cock & Ball Torture, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Dom/sub Play, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mild Painplay, Oral Sex, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape Roleplay, Rimming, Self-Esteem Issues, Size Kink, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:48:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23482684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gishmi1ish/pseuds/gishmi1ish
Summary: Look, sometimes it's hard to just come out and say what you want, so you act kinda bratty and hope for the best.Aziraphale takes Crowley in hand.So to speak.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 250
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme, Top Aziraphale Recs





	I Spent All My Years in Believing You

**Author's Note:**

> My first time responding to a prompt, and I'm SO nervous! Not even sure I'm linking to it properly! So much angst!
> 
> Prompt here:
> 
> https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/3161.html?thread=2103129#cmt2103129
> 
> "I love the idea of Crowley squirming and whining and pretending he doesn't want it, maybe faking tears, "I can't," and Aziraphale just ignoring all of this and fucking Crowley exactly the way he wanted in the first place. It can be a little harder consent play where Aziraphale deliberately disregards his token protests, or it can be more fond where he's sighing and rolling his eyes, his husband is such a drama queen. Big dick Aziraphale is optional but would be fantastic, and I don't have a preference for Crowley's effort."

There are looks and there are  _ looks _ , and Crowley knew enough of Aziraphale's by now to know that this look spelled trouble with a capital T and 90 pt double-bold font.

"Darling," said the angel, "did you buy more of the Bon Ami Scour Powder?" He was wearing a trim smock (small-scale floral of pink and orange with an occasional pop of purple for contrast-- quite tasteful), neatly cuffed washing-up gloves, and an expression of loving tolerance.

Crowley had not. Nevermind that both shopping and scouring were two chores he would happily miracle out of necessity. Aziraphale's opinion was that These Things Must Be Done Right, with one of many contractual subclauses therein being that Crowley was in charge of the shopping side of things.

"You'll just pop down to the store and get me some, won't you?" asked Aziraphale. "And, do you know, I think we're out of butter, too. While you're at it."

Crowley gave him a long, one-eyed look from where he lay wrapped snug as dolmas in two duvets. It was a Saturday morning. Surely the angel had more mercy in him than to send him out running errands before  _ noon _ on a  _ Saturday _ ?

Well.

After a scene that was unworthy of them both (and which, therefore, dear reader, you will be spared), Crowley found himself firmly ejected from both house and bed. He collected what he could of his dignity, and, telling himself that it was a beautiful day for a walk into town anyways, set off with long, swinging strides. Aziraphale, toodle-ooing a last reminder from the upstairs window ("Don't forget to bring a shopping bag, dear-- think of the sea turtles!"), could not help but admire him-- Crowley in a fine fettle of irritation was just about his favorite flavor of Crowley.

A bagel at Knupp's Bakery (garlic & onion, well-toasted, scant on the cream cheese, heavy on the lox) with a copy of the Daily Mail did much to assuage Crowley's injured sense of Saturday morning propriety. If he was going to be ordered about like some kind of…  _ intern _ , he saw no need to hurry back. One lingering hour became two, and by the time Crowley had finished the shopping and was hiking home, tote in hand (plastic bags were not, in fact, one of his, though paper bags that had to be doubled absolutely  _ were) _ , he was beginning to feel a slight prickling of unease between his shoulder blades. He did not hurry, exactly, because that never looked cool, but-- brisk. Yes, brisk was alright. Brisk seemed wise.

Aziraphale greeted his return with as much delight as if he'd come bearing champagne and strawberries instead of unsalted butter and bathroom cleaner. Crowley fought hard not to feel guilty under the onslaught of cooing appreciation, but after all, he wasn't made of stone.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"What?" said Aziraphale brightly.

" _ Sorry _ ," he said, just fractionally louder than before. "..took s'long." 

Aziraphale, who at that moment happened to be polishing a brass candlestick (which was in itself odd, because when had they ever owned brass candlesticks?) in a thoughtful manner, said… Nothing. Looked at him from under his lashes, smiled, said nothing, and turned away. Crowley went ice cold all over.

The next few hours were, for Crowley, somehow interminable and yet over too fast-- like one of those long-haul flights where they start bringing round the coffee just when you've finally managed to drift off and drool all down your face. He and Aziraphale made a simple dinner of omelet with fresh chives and a salad of tomatoes from their garden.

"Nothing too heavy," said Aziraphale, closing one eye significantly, because no matter how many times Crowley tried to teach him to wink properly, he remained steadfastly, constitutionally incapable.

Crowley ate little, drank just enough of a gin and tonic to take the edge off his creeping sense of dread, and watched the angel carefully for clues of what was to come. Aziraphale had dressed for dinner in summer-weight woolen trousers and the dove-grey button-down Crowley had given him last Christmas, the top button left open to show how nice the crisp grey looked against the rosy soft skin of his throat. Crowley swallowed hard. Well played, that. Aziraphale caught him looking and laid down his fork. He patted his mouth decorously with his napkin, but failed entirely to hide a little smirk of delight.

"I made us a frangipani for dessert, but it will keep. Would you like to go upstairs?" 

Crowley started to say something about the dishes, but Aziraphale scrunched his nose at him fondly and stood up.

"They'll keep," he said, and flicked his eyes meaningfully at the stairs. Crowley went up first, with Aziraphale close on his heels. All the lights were off, but a warm candlelit glow came from the bedroom. They went in, and Aziraphale drew shut the door behind them until the old latch caught and went  _ click.  _ Crowley breathed out, head bent. He pulled off his clothes, human-style, gracelessly, without turning around. Behind him Aziraphale hissed with pleasure. 

"Good," he said warmly, "very good." He came close --so close that Crowley could feel the heat of him, could smell the lavender water he used to press his clothes-- but did not touch him, not yet.

Crowley trembled. He was no good at this, being passive. He liked to please his partners, to lick and suck and bite them in all their tender places, and hear them make delicious sounds, but this was different, being looked at, being still. Being touched made him nervous, being pleasured made him burn with shame.  _ What right had he to pleasure-- _ he took a long, shuddering breath. 

"Shhhh," said Aziraphale, "shhh." His breath was warm on Crowley's skin. "It's alright." He touched him, then, one hand soft between his shoulders, tracing up and into his hair, taking hold, that strong hand gripping him close down by the roots. "It's alright," said Aziraphale again, "shhhh." And again, soothing, "It's alright." Crowley heard the clink and rasp of him undoing his trousers.

"Oh god," he said, helplessly, scared, "oh god--" this was the only place he ever said it, and only because he knew Aziraphale would never tell.

"Shhhhhhh," said Aziraphale, laying his face into the crook of Crowley's neck and breathing deep. "Oh, you smell so good." Crowley held still as he could while the angel laid an unbearably tender line of kisses up to his ear. Aziraphale pressed close, let him feel the silken wet touch of his cock against his thigh, whispered so, so soft right at Crowley's ear, "I'm going to take you now."

Even knowing it was coming, he couldn't stop the panic. Shallow breaths he didn't need --but try telling his brain that-- a dizziness that threatened to swallow him. 

"No--" he heard himself say, but Aziraphale was already pushing him down on the bed, there on the fresh sheets that smelled of sun. He tried to get up, scrabbled, but Aziraphale was on him, solid and unaccountably limber for someone whose primary endeavors in life were Reading All the Books and Eating All the Crumpets. He got one of Crowley's arms up behind him without hardly losing his breath. His other hand was still tight in Crowley's hair, pressing his face down into the bed.

"Sweetheart," he chided, "don't make me get rough with you." Crowley gasped inarticulately, thinking  _ Please get rough with me _ .

But he didn't. Not at first.

"Stay there," said Aziraphale, and pulled back to look at him. "Mm!"  _ His _ enjoyment of the situation, at least, betrayed no complications. "Now spread those pretty legs for me, won't you?"

Crowley tried, really he did, but it must not have been fast enough. Aziraphale gave a sharp swat to his right buttock. His hands were heavy-- he never held back. "Crowley, what did I tell you?" said Aziraphale, his voice dangerous. Crowley spread his legs wide, shaking with unfeigned fear. Eagerness, too, of course-- the eagerness was always there. All this would be easier if it wasn't.

" _ Lovely _ ," said Aziraphale, touching him, the long lines of his legs, "but you know... I think I need you on your knees. Up! You can keep your head down, if you like. I know you like a little something to muffle the screams."

"Aziraphale," said Crowley, ready to apologize, ready to beg, ready to say  _ You know what actually I have a headache _ , but he was cut off.

"Are you going to argue with me?"

"...no," he said finally. Aziraphale hummed happily, stroked the tense muscles standing out in his thighs.

"Good, good." The hand wandered higher. "Are you going to deny me anything I want to do with this glorious body?"

Crowley fought the urge to protest, settled for shaking his head. Aziraphale waited, with his thumb rubbing little circles at that sensitive place where leg met torso and everything became soft and vulnerable. Slowly Crowley clambered to his knees, showing himself, legs open, back arched, hips tilted, all of him begging to be touched.

He felt Aziraphale behind him, shifting for a good position, heard the slick sound of him stroking himself-- that sweet, fat cock that always wept so copiously when he was hard. Crowley braced himself, turned his face into the mattress, mouthing the forbidden words.

The shock, when it came, made him jump-- not with pain, but with the sweetness of it-- Aziraphale's mouth, hot, wet, as soft and buttery as a cunt. He jerked away from the liquid envelopment. Some ugly memories lay dormant there in the aching root of his testes, and even the gentlest sucking sparked them into life.

"Crowley," said Aziraphale, and Crowley shuddered. To have him speaking so normally with his face so close to that tangled knot of need and repulsion-- it was horrible beyond words. 

Aziraphale sucked him delicately, deliberately into his mouth. Crowley held absolutely still, desperately wanting to close his legs, to hide the parts that hung there so defenseless. 

Aziraphale pulled away, kissed him musingly on the outer curve of his arse. That was alright, that was safe. Crowley breathed.

"Whose beautiful body is this?" asked Aziraphale, nuzzling. Crowley didn't feel beautiful, only weak. He knew arguing the point would get him nowhere.

"Yours," he said, "yours." Aziraphale made that happy noise again.

"And what can I do with this body I love so much?" 

The prick of tears came sudden and unexpected. Crowley pressed his forehead hard into the bed, as though he could wear away whatever faulty mechanism allowed such things.

"Anything," he whispered, starting to relax into it. Aziraphale rubbed him soothingly.

"Even if you say no?" said Aziraphale, his voice still light, teasing, as though this all were no big deal. Crowley felt something unlock inside him, his spine went soft, letting his hips cant out again. He nodded. Aziraphale gave a little  _ tch _ .

"Say it." Crowley felt his cock, already hard and dripping, swell with a new ache, the sizzle of desire settling throughout his body.

"Even if I say no," he said, his voice soft, unstrangled, the tension in him now the sweet thrum of a carefully tuned string, waiting for the bow.

"Excellent," said Aziraphale, and began a series of hot, open-mouthed kisses that brought him closer and closer to the gorgeously proffered testicles, tight with arousal, as round and tempting as any fruit. He closed his mouth around them each in turn, lavishing them with his tongue, craning his neck to get that angle to catch them both and make Crowley moan so loud and so sweet. Bent behind him, humming happily, immersed in the taste and smell of this, his most beloved creature in all the spheres of existence, Aziraphale felt delirious with his own good fortune. He sucked until Crowley's balls were heavy with pleasure, almost too much to get his mouth around, and sat back to see, stroking them with a fingertip while he held a quivering hip with one hand. Crowley knew what came next.

"No," he breathed, not moving away-- if anything tilting his hips out all the more. Aziraphale felt that dark surge move in him, that power-lust he liked more than he cared to admit. He gave Crowley a little slap, right where he was tenderest. Not full force, not yet.

Crowley moaned in dismay, arching, sticking his arse out helplessly, widening his stance to give Aziraphale better access.

"Gorgeous," whispered Aziraphale, and grazed the pretty things softly with his knuckles. Crowley's cock jumped below, but Aziraphale resisted the urge to give it a taste-- another time. Instead, he gave Crowley another slap, a little firmer, and then another, watching the dark, drawn-up skin grow ruddy from the abuse.

"Please--" said Crowley, sounding broken, and Aziraphale couldn't help himself, he encircled them with finger and thumb, down by the root, angled them up so that they were just as bursting out of their skins as ripe plums, and gave them a flurry of sharp little blows. Crowley cried out into the bedsheets, "Please don't hurt me, please don't hurt me--" squirming, cock leaking, beautiful arse upturned, and Aziraphale knew if he didn't fuck him then, he might-- it was just so easy to get carried away. He squeezed them in parting, maybe just a bit to hard, but they felt so  _ good-- _ He stopped himself, breathing hard.  _ Careful _ , he thought,  _ careful _ . He bent and put his mouth to work again, soothing the hot skin with his tongue, bestowing kisses, biting gently just once because he couldn't help himself --Crowley's protests went shrill-- and then working his way up to lovingly slather that precious arsehole with enough spit and attention that maybe he could get inside.

"What am I going to do to you?" he asked coyly. Crowley gulped.

"You're going to-- fuck me," he said. Aziraphale paused, ear attuned to that little hesitation.

"I'm going to  _ fuck _ you?"

"Ahhhh," groaned Crowley, "you're going to-- rape me," whispering it, wanting to disappear.

"Yes," said Aziraphale with satisfaction, and began using his tongue with renewed ferocity, his cock throbbing with anticipation. Crowley was lost.

"You're going to tear me open," he said, not caring anymore that Aziraphale could hear how much he wanted it. "With that gorgeous big cock." 

Aziraphale drew back, feigning surprise.

"Oh, you like this cock?"

Crowley answered sulkily, "...yes," and Aziraphale tried hard not to sound too smug.

"I know you do," he said. Crowley let out a huff of resignation, but Aziraphale didn't want him getting bored. He moved up behind Crowley, taking hold of his hips.

"Are you going to try to get away? You know I like it when you try to get away." He pushed the blunt head of his cock with deliberate gracelessness against the well-slicked opening, so that Crowley reflexively pulled away.

"No--" he said, and there was a brief tussle that again ended with Crowley pinned flat to the bed, his cock trapped and jerking like a living thing under his belly, Aziraphale heavy on his back, wedging his knees between Crowley's thighs. He used one forearm pressed roughly across the back of Crowley's shoulders to hold him down, while with the other hand he lined himself up for the denouement. Crowley wriggled --he was a champion wriggler, and the desperation and slickness of the situation only served to his advantage-- but Aziraphale had the upper hand, and they both knew it.

"Shhh," said Aziraphale, as Crowley tired and finally stilled. "It's ok." He nudged his way inside, just a little, but Crowley let out a cry of such anguish a softer heart might've stopped. "Shhhh," he soothed, "shh. It's ok, it's not your fault." He eased himself in deep, groaning at the sweetness of it, fighting hard to remember what he was saying. "I know-- fuck-- I know you tried--" Crowley made a sound that might have been a sob, might not have been-- it was hard to tell at this point, all the feelings were running high, and Aziraphale had to stop a moment just to keep from coming.

"My love," he said, burying his face against Crowley's back, shutting his eyes, "my love--" 

Crowley tried to get away again-- it was too good, he couldn't stand it, but Aziraphale held him firm.

"I love what you let me do to you," he said. "I love how you feel, the sounds you make--" He pressed in harder, making him squirm. "You're so beautiful--"

"No," pleaded Crowley.

"You're so beautiful," insisted Aziraphale, rubbing his face along the smooth ridge of his back.

"No," said Crowley, fighting him, leaking from his stupid face like his heart was broken.

"Tell me you're beautiful,'' said Aziraphale, and, when it was clear Crowley couldn't, began to move inside him. "Tell me how good it feels," he said, with a catch in his voice that made Crowley want to give him anything, anything.

"It feels good," he admitted, eyes shut.

"It feels  _ so _ good," Aziraphale agreed, breathlessly. "So good being with you like this--" he had to pause again, just for a moment. "I never want it to end."

Crowley kept his eyes shut.

"Yes," he said.

"Yes," said Aziraphale, moving in him so silken, now that Crowley was relaxing, every nerve alight. "We need this, don't we?" Crowley nodded, focusing in on the pleasure even now building low, blotting out everything else. "I know you need this," said Aziraphale, running his hands down the length of his body, watching him arch.

"No," said Crowley, lying, lying through his teeth, because he did, he did, he needed it more than anything in the world.

"It's ok," breathed his lover, and Crowley could hear that he was close, could feel him swelling inside him, felt the way he twined his legs around him for purchase. He rocked his hips to feel it so unyielding, to feel his own cock sliding against the bed, felt himself speared and spitted like a fish, open-mouthed and gasping, said, "Fuck yes, I need you, Aziraphale, please come with me, please, I need you--"

Aziraphale keened his own high note of desperation and held him hard by the shoulders as he came. He felt Crowley buck beneath him, shuddering, crying out helplessly in pleasure as he doused their loyal, long-suffering bed.

Neither moved for a long time afterwards; the silence resounded as though there'd been an earthquake and they were waiting to see if the house had fallen in. Finally, Aziraphale shifted, his cock slipping free, and Crowley groaned at the rush of sensation.

"Angel," he said, supplication in every note, and Aziraphale rolled to lay beside him, tucked him into the warm crook of his arm.

"Shhh," he said, stroking him lazily. "You're ok. You're fine." Crowley stretched, savoring every sore muscle, threading one cold foot between his lover's legs. Feeling loose-tongued in the burnt-down-to-embers, post-coital glow, he said, "I don't know why I need it." 

Aziraphale's hands and body were warm and soft against him, utterly unconcerned.

"You won't always need it," he said.

Crowley considered. 

"But… if I do?"

Aziraphale cracked an eye open, and gave him a look of such undeniable sultriness that Crowley was frankly impressed. 

"Well, that's alright, too," he said, and pulled him snug against the dense meat of the body he lived in, the beloved house of a beloved soul, and despite himself, Crowley believed him, and slept.


End file.
